something or other, and he reflected that even his Katharine did not differ from other women in the capacity to let things be. Or had she something to say?
“Have you a guilty conscience?” he inquired lightly. “Tell me, Katharine,” he said more seriously, struck by something in the expression of her eyes.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you for some time,” she said. “I’m not going to marry William.”
“You're not going—!” he exclaimed, dropping the poker in his immense surprise. “Why? When? Explain yourself, Katharine.”
“Oh, some time ago─a week, perhaps more.” Katharine spoke hurriedly and indifferently, as if the matter could no longer concern any one.
“But may I ask—why have I not been told of this—what do you mean by it?”
“We don’t wish to be married—that’s all.”
“This is William’s wish as well as yours?”
“Oh yes. We agree perfectly.”
Mr. Hilbery had seldom felt more completely at a loss. He thought that Katharine was treating the matter with curious unconcern; she scarcely seemed aware of the gravity of what she was saying; he did not understand the position at all. But his desire to smooth everything over comfortably came to his relief. No doubt there was some quarrel, some whimsey on the part of William, who, though a good fellow, was a little exacting sometimes—something that a woman could put right. But though he inclined to take the easiest view of his responsibilities, he cared too much for his daughter to let things be.
“I confess I find great difficulty in following you. I should like to hear William’s side of the story,” he said irritably. “I think he ought to have spoken to me in the first instance.”
“I wouldn’t let him,” said Katharine. “I know it must seem to you very strange,” she added. “But I
